I became a daydream, The excitement that was missing In their lives, Something to fill the hole in their hearts That were starting to rot in the open air. I was always moving, Even within a city, Moving from place to place. Borrowing beds, losing my thread, And encouraging the idea they liked to keep of me. I wondered when I would love one of my Temporary homes, jobs or lovers Enough to stay. When would I be able to look someone In the eyes and say "I'm tired baby, take me home"? When would someone feel like home? She says that I'm several different people, He says that I get bored too fast. Another writes me love letters And looks past all of my mess, But it's not right, I'm not right, And I tell him I'm not ready yet. I get angry. Not at them but at myself. I miss having solid ground. I get angry in the most ordinary places: A flower shop, the grocery store, A goddamn food court. Angry when I see people with dogs And beautiful children; A grocery cart full of food. I get angry because I tried my hand at stability, And fought for every one of our broken pieces. They ripped my hands to shreds. I'm still finding blood stains, Scrapes and bruises under my nylons, And shards of him under the bed. He was messy, I was messy, it got messy. We both refused to clean it up. It's getting better. I'm getting better. I left his mess And I'm cleaning up my own, Looking forward to the day That I can say "I'm tired baby, take me home."